angels with benefits
by Clorinda
Summary: Dean and Castiel aren't lovers. They're just two people who enjoy each other's company a bit too much. And it's just physical, anyway. Until Castiel loses his powers in Oregon, and Dean is forced to revaluate everything he knows about their relationsh


**author's note**: set from the end of **6.17 **_**my heart will go on**_to** 6.19 **_**mother knows best**_, with spoilers and foreshadowing for **6.20 **_**the man who would be king**_. Castiel is on the path of making bad decisions in his war against Raphael; including having Balthazar rescue _Titanic_. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam go back in time themselves to gather their only weapon against Eve, and the showdown in Oregon. A couple of lines borrowed from the ep, [and one reference to _Glee_], and canon rewritten to mean that Dean and Castiel were doing it the whole time.

explanation: so been in a very Dean x Cas mood lately, and the moral ambiguity of the last episodes of s6 is *_* especially why Castiel wanted Balthazar to stop the _Titanic_ sinking. Have to love the guy. I have no idea what happened to this fic, ngl. It just took on a life of its own, and wouldn't stop writing. Moreover, it is my baby for so many reasons, despite its obvious and several flaws.

-it got me out of a terrible writer's block thingy, which has been making it impossible for me to write readable fic.

-it cleared my head in order for me to write something decent for **dgficexchange**.

-I wrote it at internship office. All of it.

-yes, I really was bored. Very, very bored.

* * *

><p><strong>angels with benefits<strong>

**By **Clorinda

Dean and Castiel aren't lovers. They're just two people who enjoy each other's company... a bit too much. And it's just physical, anyway. Until Castiel loses his powers in Oregon, and Dean is forced to revaluate everything he knows about their relationship. Late Season 6.

"_Help_ you, Winchester? You must have me confused with that other angel in the dirty trench-coat who's in love with you."

~**Balthazar**, _My Heart Will Go On_

Balthazar had this way of looking askew at Castiel and quirking an eyebrow, a look that unequivocally said, "That's your boy-toy you're thinking about, isn't it?"

And Castiel was tired of arguing that the Winchesters, they just _were_, not his boy-toys, not his pets, not stuffed animals, or plushies on his bed. What he refused to tell Balthazar was that it was a lot more complicated up in his head.

"Shitty kind of day, wouldn't you say?" Balthazar serenely slurped his Starbucks coffee, apparently enjoying it. "We're in a reality where James Cameron makes that craptastic movie after all, and your adorable little pets nearly die. Death by piano, very classy."

Castiel just glowered at the pavement because there was no better reaction he could summon. A private army in exchange for Dean Winchester's life: funny how easy the decision had been; he wasn't even as pissed off at that Fate as he had the right to be.

"Here." Balthazar nudged him, holding out the coffee. "Try it. Might give you something new to dwell on."

It was burning hot, and rather tasteless on Castiel's tongue. The red colour on his face didn't fade, but he had a feeling it had little to do with the coffee.

The prayer sounded between them, louder than a klaxon. Castiel ignored the deeply amused, askew look Balthazar shot in his direction. "Maybe they couldn't outrun Atropos after all."

"He calls, you go running."

"There's a very angry Fate on the loose."

"It's more original than the dog eating Dean Winchester's homework."

* * *

><p>Their old man Bobby was splayed on the couch, oblivious to the world; the last thing he'd known was a bottle of Jack Daniels. Rather than expectantly waiting to see him, Sam and Dean were arguing heatedly about waking Bobby up. Had they summoned Castiel by mistake? Balthazar always said he had one ear pressed to the floor of heaven, waiting for them to call. Maybe it was—<p>

"Cass!" Sam grinned enthusiastically, beckoning him closer. "Help us out here, man."

"What's going on?" he asked warily; Dean was doubled over the VCR, and Castiel had to swallow and look away. Admiring Dean Winchester's derrière in stone-washed denim in the vicinity of his rifle-toting brother probably wasn't the smartest move.

"It works," announced Dean, punching buttons on an old remote control. "Take a seat, Cass.

"The Fate's not in here, is she?" The last time, she'd nearly dropped a piano on their heads. Castiel suspected that her twisted sense of irony would mean she might try dropping a tornado on their house in Kansas next.

"Naw, dude, you said she gave up on that," said Dean dismissively. "We're not too worried. But there is this... whole other thing."

Castiel's gaze flicked between the brothers patiently, searching for a clue. Sam wasn't even looking at him, but at the TV screen, as though waiting for something to happen. "Is that—?" he began, confused.

"My idiot brother says Balthazar got him thinking," growled Sam. "Imagine Dean's _thinking_, and we owe it to that guy, of all people."

"Hey, it's a tough question!" protested Dean, snatching the box out of Sam's hands. "And who better to settle it than Cass, the most upstanding, impartial, straight-up guy we know."

Castiel's blinked, feeling suspiciously like he was being flattered, but at the same time, it was the nicest things Dean had ever said about him. Beside him, Sam snorted.

"Very cool, brother. Bribing the judge much?" At the same time, Sam steered him into the cushiest armchair, fussing over if he was comfortable. When the movie started to flicker across the screen, everything started to make a little bit more sense. He cast a tortured look at Dean, but both brothers were gazing intently at the TV; help was evidently not coming from that quarter.

Half an hour into the _Titanic_ movie, Sam gave up and left, declaring he wasn't going to _sit around_ and wait while his brain cells died, piece by piece. Dean triumphantly crowed "_Loser!_" as though a bet was involved in this somewhere. Sam gave him a pitying look. "You're the one still sitting on the couch, waiting to find out if Cass likes the movie, _loser_."

Something like horror flip-flopped in his chest. The beseeching look that Dean shot him meant that it was imperative that Castiel should watch the movie to the end, and declare he liked it. (Sam was already shaking Bobby awake, and dragging him out.) But _Titanic_ was too high a price to pay for loyalty and a wager. It seemed like Dean had the same idea, because he started talking up a distraction a mile a minute. Apparently, Castiel just had to _sit through_ the entire movie, not watch it.

He was definitely up to this challenge, especially with Dean wedged on the armchair, head lolling against Castiel's shoulder, his baritone of nonsense washing over them both.

"Are you very upset about Ellen and Jo?" He needed to know, even if he had to break into the pleasant lull of his friend's voice. "I am sorry it happened that way."

Dean glanced up quickly, hand dragging across his forehead. "What?" he rasped. "No. I mean, yes, it bothers me like hell, but it's not like we _blame_ you for it." Castiel winced, selfishly glad that Dean did not know. He needed allies, but he needed his friends more. "No, it's something else... like it's been scratching at the back of my head all this time."

"What is it?"

"I don't know how to say it right. It's this whole business... in my dream, it made perfect sense to be in a world where the Titanic _hadn't_ sunk. If I hadn't woken up, it wouldn't have even felt like a dream."

"No. No, it wouldn't."

"So, then... us, sitting here, watching this god-awful movie, maybe that'll be a dream when I wake up too."

"Dean," began Castiel dryly. "This is real. I'm not sure Balthazar" (_or I_) "is going to change history again."

"Won't he?" There was a kind of desperate urgency in Dean's eyes when he looked at Castiel. He'd slipped off the armchair, kneeling on the carpet. "Because there's no way I'll ever get to know, and who knows what's going to happen in future." He gestured emphatically at his TV. "I mean, _look_ at that. Who won't be driven to desperate measures by that movie?"

Castiel was going to pitch in with a reassurance, but Dean was shaking his head firmly, as though trying to convince himself of some fact. "Dean," he found himself saying instead, "what _would_ you do if this was just a dream, a reality that would be unreal if someone spotted an iceberg?"

"Something I've wanted to do for longer than I remember," murmured Dean, one hand gripping Castiel's shoulder to steady himself as he arched his back to kiss an angel. Castiel smelled like grass, and rain and gardens, he realised vaguely, tracing Cass's lips with his tongue. They parted, and Dean hungrily kissed him harder. Castiel's hands tangling and tugging his hair, the involuntary deep-throated moan he drew out, only spurred his own desire.

Castiel found himself being easily pulled down from the cushioned armchair, aware for the first time just how _built_ Dean Winchester was. The hard, sculpted abdomen heaved in a gasp as Castiel leaned forward, hands running lower down the stonewashed denim, undoing the single button that held his jeans up.

"Whoa, Cass," chuckled Dean against his lips, sucking in a harsher breath. Castiel's eyes widened, something cold flipped over in his chest again. The bloodrush and lust of the moment vaporised like breath, and all his misgivings shot into him again. Dean was trapping him between his body and the armchair, their legs splayed untidily on the carpet, heavier, stronger, woodsy scent of cologne on his collar intoxicating. Castiel, infinitely more powerful, was powerless.

"Hey, hey, hey." Dean frowned, freeing a hand from doing wicked things under Castiel's shirt to chuck him under the chin. "Am I so bad a lay that you gotta look at me like that?"

"But you— you seem—"

"Caught off-guard that — _this_ — is actually happening?" suggested Dean easily. When he met Castiel's eyes, there was no turmoil, no anxiety: no regret. Castiel wanted to tell him that this moment _was_ real, and that it would always be. The words died before he could say them aloud.

"Are you sure?" he found himself asking instead, asking about something else entirely.

Dean's reply was to roll his eyes affectionately, a familiar expression that made Castiel less nervous, before he grasped Castiel's hand, guiding it down between his legs. Even through the denim, to feel Dean harden was electric. "Yeah," said Dean, grinning. "I'm sure."

Castiel's mouth, bitten red, quirked into the first smile Dean had seen in a while.

It turned out that getting rid of Dean's trousers were a lot easier than peeling off Castiel's trench-coat. It turned out that Castiel had spent eternity thinking that the only satisfaction he would ever get would be from winning against Raphael for the first time in existence. It turned out (as Dean discovered) that he wasn't Castiel's first. But Dean's breathless growl as he came, Castiel gripping Dean around the waist so hard that he saw the sun even as his knees scraped against the grizzly carpet— it was like being blasted on a wave of blinding light into next Tuesday.

Dean slumped forward against Castiel, burying his face in the crook of the angel's neck; the careless grin on his face spoke volumes. Castiel averted his own gaze, running his fingers through Dean's damp hair, combing it off his forehead.

Pent-up desire tried to rise like magma inside him. Dean shifted forward as though he would throw Castiel down on the carpet, and take him then and there. But even the smallest movement made him wince, and he glanced down in surprise at the Castiel-shaped handprints, bright against his tanned midriff.

"Whoa, Cass," he repeated, unfurling a lazy grin. With a final rush of strength, he managed to throw the other down on the carpet again. Castiel surrendered easily; he didn't even put up a fight.

* * *

><p>"So you and Cass. You guys finally did it, huh?" declared Sam, striding into the living room, and crouching down near Castiel's abandoned armchair. Dean promptly choked on the cheeseburger he was devouring, and Castiel became very interested in the view outside the window.<p>

Sam popped the video out of the VCR, and stared at them both oddly. "You two actually watched it to the end? I'm impressed. I may owe you five dollars after all, brother."

The horrified look on Dean's face was one that Castiel actually understood. Five dollars to be blown one Wednesday afternoon seemed a little cheap.

* * *

><p>Dean parked in the first abandoned lot he could find. Express delivery of one convenient bottle of phoenix ash, and Sam's cell phone ("magic brick," as Samuel Colt had put it so eloquently.) They were that much closer to destroying Eve, if only they could find her. Every nerve in his body was jangling. Dean Winchester, once again, had no idea of what to do, except to close his eyes, and call on the one person who had no expectations of him,<p>

"Oh great Cass," he muttered. "Holiest of holy angels Cass—"

He glanced into the rear-view mirror.

An angel waited patiently in the backseat. "Flattery always seems to work—" he began seriously. That was as far as Dean let him get, before slamming his mouth against Castiel's.

Crowley complained for a week afterward that Castiel reeked of Impala.

* * *

><p>Oregon turned out to be harder than what either of them expected.<p>

* * *

><p>Every time they looked at him as if he had some kind of... special connection with Castiel, he wondered if they knew everything after all. What he had with Castiel was as base as anything gratifying could get.<p>

"He doesn't _live_ in my ass," he found himself adding defensively to Sam and Bobby, trying very hard to not sound defensive. Sammy stared at him. Dean warily glanced around. Cass gazed calmly back at him. "_Get out of my ass!_" yelped Dean, louder than he needed to.

It must be a pretty special thing to be able to make an angel blush.

* * *

><p>That bitch had all of Oregon in her grasp, and Castiel had a feeling that Crowley <em>knew<em> this would happen, and still hadn't told him. He probably expected Eve to finish the Winchesters off. But as much as Castiel needed Crowley, he was only going to stoop so low to betray his friends.

It was then that he realised that the bitch also had him locked in a steel grasp, squeezing so tight he was turning blue. He didn't have a drop of power left in his human body's blood.

The three men around the table stared, dumbfounded, at him, and he knew in a shot that they were worried about how they would keep him alive. Castiel was more used to the tables being turned the other way.

Dean snorted. "So without your powers, you're just a baby in a trench-coat?"

Castiel hadn't expected those words to hit their mark, but they did. His no-more-angelic hide suddenly wasn't as strong as it used to be. And it stung.

* * *

><p>Dean had this particularly shifty smile that reeked of double standards. "So," he began casually, when Castiel walked into their motel room. "I know we're probably gonna die sooner than anyone predicted, and Eve already knows where we are, so we kinda have not much to do."<p>

"Where are you going with this?" asked Castiel warily, but he already knew. The smouldering hunger in Dean's eyes made his knees turn to butter.

"I think you know," suggested the hunter, running his tongue over his lips in a distinctly feral way. "Or did mommy really make you limp?"

There it was again. Because Dean Winchester was always one for the tough love, the kind that made it hard to sit down ever again without wincing. And Castiel was scared, and he felt nearly naked; if he didn't have his powers, he wouldn't be able to protect them all, and the last thing he needed, really, was this.

"It's only figuratively," he growled. The door locked easily behind him, and he crossed the floor, shoving the seated Dean back against the bed. Dean didn't move. He sat like a rock, a challenge in his shit-eating grin. Frustration reared up inside Castiel, and he shoved Dean again, and the hunter laughed, catching Castiel by the wrist, and pulling both of them down on the bed.

"Too hot for a coat, Cass," Dean told him mock-seriously. One hand was trying to undo the blue tie, the other slipping under the overcoat. Dean's fingers were ticklish against his side: Castiel never thought he'd feel ticklish. "C'mon," urged Dean, "how hard is it to get you to laugh a little?"

Castiel didn't repeat that joke of Dean's that always made him chuckle to himself. He was too busy trying to hold on to his righteous anger, but Dean was affectionately cursing the number of clothes that angels wore. Dean was chatty, but it was more of the talking filthy kind of chatty. Playful Dean was someone he'd never seen, someone who soothed the frayed nerve ends.

"Us and a bed?" Dean pressed his fingers against Castiel's mouth, breaking off the kiss that Castiel had never wanted to end. He frowned, closing his eyes. "This is new, Cass. Definitely unusual for us."

Castiel moved downwards to kiss his neck, sucking and leaving a trail of angry bites a vampire would have been proud of.

"I mean, our track record consists of the floor of my house, my car, and the restroom of a diner before Bobby nearly walked in on us. A bed may be a little too conventional—"

"Not to mention clean," added Castiel darkly.

Dean laughed, a flash of white. "Close your eyes," he murmured, fingers brushing below Castiel's lashes, and Castiel complied. Dean's skin was warm against his. Everything thrummed with energy all around him, down to Dean's shallow breathing beside his ear. He was hyper-aware of the room he was in, the dust motes and the sunlight, and Dean stronger than Samson, whom Castiel was pinning down, blindly. Dean kissed him softly on the mouth, and again, and little pieces of Castiel seemed to fuse together at this gentleness he had never expected.

The belt swished out of Dean's jeans like a leather snake. The buckle soundlessly hit the ratty carpet. Castiel's breath hitched to just look at Dean, who smiled lazily up at him. "Keeping the trench-coat on, Cass?" he teased.

Castiel thrust into him, a nanosecond earlier than Dean had braced himself for. He didn't make a sound, but the lines of his back went rigid momentarily before he relaxed again, and Castiel understood why Dean was being so suddenly careful. "You wouldn't break me," he whispered into Dean's sweaty shoulder as he thrust harder, shuddering as he wordlessly came.

* * *

><p>Crowley unsettled Castiel, and the bastard knew it. His knowing gaze was like a heat-seeking missile, locking onto Castiel's weaknesses. Castiel supposed he himself was like a lizard, his instinctive urge to go to Dean: like a lizard, he needed something warm under him to live.<p>

It turned out that Dean was willing to give him what he wanted, but for a price.

"You're not allowed to say _I told you so_."

Castiel nearly laughed: Eve preying on the Winchesters' weaknesses by using that little boy Ryan, was the last thing on his mind. He bit his tongue before he could say, _As long as you don't ask me how Crowley is still alive_.

It felt good, a primal kind of good, deep down, admitted Dean, that they were at par again at last. They had always been at par, even if Cass hadn't been infinitely stronger, because the last time he'd been so human (so vulnerable), Dean had been terrified.

This time was oddly silent, like they both had far too much on their minds. Dean had just killed a monster who looked like his mother, and Castiel was on the cusp of betraying his only friends. The right side of Dean's neck was smeared with phoenix ash and damp with sweat, and for the first time, it was Castiel who had to be careful.

—- **finis** -—


End file.
